When attending film festivals like Cannes, I’ve always wondered about the filmmaker anticlimax. Here’s a movie you’ve labored over and tinkered with for months, years, maybe even decades. And then, suddenly, it is out in the world to be tangled with, embraced, or dismissed. A rave must feel great. A pan has to hurt. But what of the far more common in-between experience: the friendly nods of recognition, the wan words of approval.
Reichardt, a professor at Bard, is herself ensconced in academia, and she brings a wry, knowing eye to’s depiction of the freedom and tedium of the incubator. A competitive spirit murmurs in every room, but never quite drowns out the collegial encouragement. It’s a furnace, but it’s set to low.
When that day arrives—all of Lizzie’s lovely little sculptures arrayed on a single pedestal —it comes with the expected jumble of nerves and nuisances. Sean is eating too much cheese. Lizzie’s divorced parents get to bickering. A potential opportunity arrives in the form of a New York gallerist, but we’ve no idea what becomes of that. It is, in the end, just another day—albeit one in which Lizzie’s output has finally left its nest.
*Williams' or Williams's
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